


Second Best

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: F1slash Secret Santa 2008, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Men who speak of betrayal should never be trusted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Best

"What do you think of betrayal?"

It's a strange question to ask, and one that Pedro doesn't know how to answer. He considers for some time, staring at the wall of the hotel room as he unbuttons his shirt. He knows Fernando can't be talking of marital infidelity; that would be a moot point. The only other kinds of betrayal are those of friendship or work, or perhaps treason to one's country, but it'd never be that.

"What do you mean?" he asks eventually, hesitant to commit himself to an answer when he's still not sure of the question.

Fernando pulls off his team t-shirt and yanks out his belt with a snap. His jeans ride low on his hips as he turns around. His eyes spark with anger. Pedro knows it's not anger directed at him. It never is. It's anger from the circuit, from the media, from Ron's too-thoughtful remarks, from the handling of the car.

"Betrayal," Fernando says, coming close and hooking a finger in the front of Pedro's neatly pressed chinos. "Would you betray someone?"

"I..." Pedro finds it difficult to finish the thought when Fernando shoves his hand down the front of the chinos and gropes him into a full erection.

"Would you?" Fernando asks again, squeezing him so tight it's almost painful.

"Maybe. It depends on the circumstances." Pedro lets Fernando lead him to the bed. "If it was for a good cause. If it was the right thing to do."

Fernando lets go of him long enough to wriggle out of his jeans. He's naked underneath the denim, all golden flesh and dark hair. He lies back on the bed and stares up at him in challenge. "So you think there can be justification for betrayal."

"Yes. No. Yes." Pedro is distracted. He strips off the rest of his clothes and crawls onto the mattress, careful not to cover Fernando's body with his own until he's invited to do so.

Fernando turns onto his side. "Would you do it for me?"

Pedro gazes at him. He's never been able to resist Fernando. Not quite similar, yet not at all the same, the only things they have in common are motorsport and their nationality. The usual clichés about Spaniards fit Fernando, who is as tempestuous, passionate and childish in bed as he is on track. Those clichés don't apply to Pedro, who sees himself as controlled and cautious and... well, a kind of slow-burner.

Fernando is feted and hailed as a national hero. Pedro is the forgettable one somewhere in the midfield. Formula One needs them both for different reasons. People pay-per-view to watch Fernando. The teams pay Pedro, quietly and without fuss, to test their cars. There's no shame in being second best – or at least, there shouldn't be.

Pedro is happy in his place. It's not what he wanted or dreamed of all those years ago, but he's a realist. He considers himself more of a realist than Fernando. He could have told his compatriot that McLaren wouldn't be good for him, that Ron would favour Lewis. Ron has a proven record of favouritism; he's never going to change. But Fernando, in his exuberant arrogance, believed that he'd be the one to change Ron.

So Pedro didn't say anything, but made sure he was there for Fernando when the cracks began to show. He's still there now, soothing the anger that burns itself out, white-hot, in a session of sweaty, plunging sex. He doesn't love Fernando, but he respects what he's done. He thinks of respect as more important than love.

When they've finished, and the bed is strewn with discarded clothing and rumpled sheets, Fernando touches his fingers to the new bruises he's raised on Pedro's skin. "You know Nigel Stepney is passing technical information to McLaren, don't you?"

Pedro raises his eyebrows. At first he's amused by Fernando's habit of referring to their team by name, as if he's detached from it. Then the impact of what he said sinks in, and he's startled. "What?"

"It's true. I've seen it." Fernando glances at him sidelong.

"Is it..." Pedro hesitates. He shouldn't get involved in this. It's dangerous and demeaning: to the sport, to the team, and to them as drivers. But Fernando is looking at him expectantly, so he has to say something. "What kind of information?"

"The specs of the Ferrari. Its capabilities and weaknesses." Fernando pauses. "The timings of pit-stops and when they expect to call them during the next few races."

Pedro laughs in disbelief. "They can't predict pit-stops before they've arrived at the circuit!"

"Yes, they can." Fernando closes his eyes and settles back against the pillows. "This is Ferrari. They can talk to God."

Shaking his head, Pedro says, "This is crazy. Does Ron know?"

Fernando opens his eyes and gives him a guileless look. "What do you think?"

"And you've seen this... information."

"Naturally. Lewis has seen it, too."

Now Pedro feels a little bit hurt that he's been left out. He's the test driver. If anyone should have access to technical information, it should be him. He's the one who does all the legwork, puts in hour after hour of testing to make sure the cars perform at their optimum during race weekend. Ron should have trusted him first. Instead, he's been overlooked, relegated to second best.

"Can you send me a copy?" he asks before he can think better of it.

Fernando smiles. "Of course I can. There are certain things highlighted in the information that I'd like to discuss with you." He moves closer, lowering his voice to an intimate purr. "Your knowledge is so important to me, Pedro. You're the only one at McLaren who understands me."

Pushing aside his moral misgivings, Pedro preens at the compliment.

* * * *

When the news breaks in June, Pedro can only watch helplessly as events unfold. Rumours birth more gossip. Nigel Stepney is fired from Ferrari and McLaren suspend Mike Coughlan. The police are involved, then come affidavits and the baying of the media as allegations pile on top of allegations.

He seeks out Fernando in his motorhome and asks what they should do.

"Nothing," Fernando says with complete calm.

"But our emails – we're implicated..."

Fernando puts on a pair of mirrored sunglasses. "We'll be fine. Do nothing." He grins and slaps Pedro on the shoulder. "You'll see. Everything will be all right."

Pedro watches him saunter out into the paddock as if he hasn't a care in the world. Panic gnaws at him. When he sees Ron fielding questions from the press, guilt flays his conscience. Confused, Pedro hunches over his laptop and deletes all his emails.

In Hungary, Pedro sees Ron walk into the garage, white-faced and blank. There's such an aura of rage around him that no one dares to ask what's wrong. Moments later, Fernando walks in with a sprightly step, a smile on his face and murder in his eyes.

After the race is over, Ron pulls Pedro to one side and asks him what the bloody fuck he thinks he's playing at.

Pedro can't quite deny everything, but he tries his best.

"You're an idiot," Ron tells him. "A fucking idiot."

The police take his laptop. They take Fernando's and Lewis's computers, too. Pedro waits, worrying incessantly. When Fernando invites him to bed, Pedro can't perform. Fernando doesn't ask what's wrong. He doesn't offer sympathy. They don't talk about the FIA investigation. Pedro drowns in his remorse while Fernando seems remarkably cheerful.

When the computers are returned, certain facts are made available to the McLaren team. Ron calls his three drivers into his office and hands them a sheaf of print-outs stapled together. Lewis frowns as he reads through his copy. The emails written in Spanish have an English translation appended to them. Fernando gives his papers a cursory glance then waits out the rest of the meeting, his gaze fixed on Ron.

Pedro reads his copy and feels sick. The report states that Lewis knew nothing about the stolen Ferrari information. Pedro's emails are there in full, retrieved from some distant corner of the internet. He reads what he wrote to Fernando. Nausea churns his stomach as, between the lines, he recognises his enthusiasm, his self-importance, his joy at belonging and being part of something special and secret.

He reads his emails and realises that Fernando set him up. There's no trace of the mails Fernando sent to him. Instead, Fernando comes off looking like a bewildered innocent, replying to Pedro's messages with phrases of nonchalance or disbelief.

How can this have happened? Pedro flicks through the pages, looking for Fernando's mails, looking for the evidence that'll acquit him of any wrong-doing. But there's nothing, because he's guilty; and now Lewis is looking at him in consternation, and Fernando is smiling, and Ron is sitting quiet and angry.

"Fernando." Ron stares at him, so glacial and hard that Fernando actually flinches. "You'll be pleased to know your services will not be required for next season. We'll be in touch with your lawyers regarding the severance of your contract with McLaren."

Lewis looks shocked and embarrassed.

Pedro's shocked, too. He knows he shouldn't be. When Ron dismisses them, he lingers, expecting a warning of his own. But Ron ignores him, turning back to the work on his desk as if Pedro isn't there.

Outside the office, Fernando hugs him. He's ecstatic, full of glee. "Thank you," he says. "Thank you, my friend."

This time, Pedro can't take the compliment. Friends don't use one another in an attempt to betray their team. They don't use one another to wriggle out of their multi-million dollar contract. They don't use one another, full stop. But Fernando did, and that's the worst betrayal of all.

Reading those emails uncovered by the FIA was hard. Not because of the technical material they'd discussed, but because of the words of tender affection that framed them. Pedro puts his head in his hands and imagines Max reading the emails. He imagines dozens of faceless lawyers pouring through them. He imagines copy after copy being made and printed out, maybe even posted on the internet.

His innermost feelings taken out of context and shared with the world – this he can bear. After all, he doesn't really love Fernando. What he can't stand is the thought that everyone will see how he's been played for a fool.

He walked into it with his eyes wide open, keen to do the right thing. Instead, all he's done is prove that he's nothing more than second best.


End file.
